And a crisis in the veterinary industry.
Quality of life in Spain is among the highest in the world, but that isn’t enough to prevent young Spaniards from seeking careers abroad. The country has always struggled with high unemployment rates, especially among 15–25-year-olds, almost a quarter of whom are currently out of work. As a result, many young Spaniards, especially those with a university education, seek opportunities elsewhere: according to a 2023 survey, more than half of Spanish youth plan or would like to move to a different country.
Those who do remain are often wildly overqualified for the jobs available to them. Spain has the highest number of under-34s in Europe working in roles unrelated to their studies—28.9% compared to the EU average of 20.4%. In Germany, the skills mismatch is just 8.5%. My closest Spanish friend studied psychology for 10 years, but has recently retrained as a carpenter. Most of the jobs he held before this career switch were in bars and restaurants.
Qualified Spaniards who do find suitable work are often quickly demoralized by poor pay and long hours, a problem that is approaching crisis level among the nation’s veterinarians. According to recent data, although only 5% of Spanish vets have worked in other countries, 60% of those who did so left because of poor working conditions at home. The problem is not so much that Spanish vets are leaving the country, but that few want to work in the vast, rural interior, referred to as España vaciada (empty Spain). The consequences for Spain’s economy and the welfare of its farm-reared animals are already being felt.
Data published recently by the Federation of European Veterinarians (FVE) reveal that the average wage for a vet working in the bloc is €38,500 ($44,600). In Spain, however, that figure drops to €26,000 ($30,100), and again to €18,844 ($21,800) for vets working with domestic pets—hardly an appealing salary after five years of intensive study. These pet specialists account for 55% of all Spanish vets, and most work in small clinics in urban areas (as did my Spanish ex-girlfriend, who came home almost every day raging at the mismatch between her qualifications and pay).
The financial rewards for veterinary professionals who work with large animals or livestock are greater, with the FVE putting their average wage in Spain at €31,646 ($36,650). But only 15% of Spanish vets specialize in food-producing animals, a shortage that compounds itself by resulting in brutal schedules. According to Gonzalo Moreno, president of the Spanish Veterinary Organisation, because “there are fewer and fewer of us, colleagues face a heavier workload, they have to visit more farms and drive more kilometers every day.”
You can’t blame Spanish vets, especially young ones, for wanting to avoid España vaciada. A population displacement that began in the mid-20th century saw hundreds of thousands of people leave the rural heartlands in search of better lives; most went to Barcelona, Madrid, or major coastal hubs such as Málaga and Valencia, which led the country’s emerging tourism industry in the 1950s and 1960s. As a result, an estimated 90% of the country’s 49.8 million population now lives on just 30% of the land (according to some sources, the latter statistic of land use is actually as low as 2.6%). Many villages in regions such as Castile and León and Castilla–La Mancha lack basic infrastructure, have populations of less than 1,000, and are long drives from the nearest town or city.
In Castile and León (Spain’s largest region, bigger than 17 of the EU’s 27 countries), 57% of the 2.4 million residents live on less than 4% of the land. Several political parties have sprung up to represent the inhabitants of España vaciada, who claim to have been neglected by successive central governments. One of these, Teruel Existe (Teruel Exists, formed in the eastern province of Teruel in the late 1990s), gained seats in the national congress in 2019.
The absence of vets in España vaciada is already having an economic impact. Spain is the EU’s leading producer of livestock, exporting more than 5 million tons annually, or 26% of the bloc’s total. Interior regions such as Castile and León, Castilla–La Mancha, and Aragón drive this industry, with the former providing around 12% of meat sold in Spanish supermarkets every year. But the Slaughterhouse Association of Castile and León reports that some abattoirs are having to cut their operational hours by up to 45% due to a lack of vets available for supervisory roles.
Reduced working hours are not the only problem. Under EU and Spanish regulations, operations at every abattoir (matadero) must be overseen by a vet. According to a 2009 EU directive, animals must be stunned before being slaughtered, and workers are mandated to ensure that “animals do not present any signs of consciousness in the period between the end of the stunning process and death.” Industry watchdogs, however, are concerned that these and other regulations are being violated due to a lack of veterinary supervision, even though video surveillance has been mandatory in Spanish abattoirs since 2022.
The animal welfare charity Igualdad Animal has taken legal action against an abattoir near Segovia over the manner in which it captured, kept, and slaughtered 200 deer in early 2025 (extreme viewer discretion is advised for the YouTube video). The charity claims that the matadero is guilty of several severe regulatory breaches, including failure to stun the animals, mass shooting of the deer in cramped pens (during which animals witnessed the execution of others), and prolonged deaths, with some deer being hoisted up by their rear legs while still alive.
Meanwhile, ARDE, another animal welfare group, has reported a pig farm in Teruel to the regional prosecutor’s office. After an investigation conducted between October 2025 and February this year, ARDE found pigs living alongside rotting carcasses (some of which had been cannibalized), suffering from abscesses and abdominal hernias, and subjected to abuse by workers. ARDE also reported that some of the viruses and bacteria carried by the pigs could be transferred to humans. Alarmingly, the Teruel farm bears the “Welfair” stamp, supposedly meaning that customers who buy its products are contributing to “making animal welfare a priority for the agri-food industry.” Clearly, that’s not a guarantee.
Despite these scandals, the EU Commission has recently delivered a positive assessment of the animal welfare control system in Spanish slaughterhouses. In an audit report conducted by the Directorate-General for Health and Food Safety between September and October 2025, it found that working practices in the mataderos were “mostly effective” and that animals were adequately protected during the slaughtering process. It did, however, note that the main area for improvement was the sanctions system, which it found too slow and complicated and an “insufficient deterrent for non-compliant operators.” Such operators will face even fewer deterrents if there are no vets around to monitor them.
Vets can’t solve the economic and social problems faced by Spain’s deserted interior. But they are vital to ensuring that the practices uncovered in Segovia and Teruel remain the exception, not the norm. If those appalling cases incentivize a few more vets to work in rural Spain, at least some good will have come of them.
